


Reflections

by neveralarch



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Fashionable people, doing fashionable things.





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prodigy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/gifts).



> Happy yuletide, prodigy!

Mitzi can hear the band warming up downstairs. She’s moving up in the world—she gets to dance at the party instead of singing at it. She gets the dressing room to herself, instead of fighting J.J. and Zib for the mirror. Just her, her makeup, and that little shadow of Atlas' playing bodyguard from the corner.

New life, new Mitzi. She brushes on the light brown eyeshadow, but she startles when she hears a door slam somewhere outside. She tries to brush away the smudge with her fingertips, but she only makes it worse.

"Here," says Atlas' shadow. Martin? No, Morris. He's holding out his pocket square. Mitzi almost glares at him before she remembers herself; forces a smile instead.

"Aren't you a dear." Mitzi dabs at the corner of her eye with the linen.

Morris' expression doesn't change. "You should really start over. Brown is old-fashioned."

Now Mitzi does glare.

"I know you have better eyeshadow," says Morris. "I've seen you on stage—"

"I'm supposed to be Atlas' wife," hisses Mitzi. "Not his doll."

"You're supposed to be his wife," agrees Morris. "Not his great-aunt."

Mitzi grasps for a retort that isn't throwing the handkerchief in his face. It wouldn't do as much damage as she’d like. She settles on "that's an ugly tie."

Morris raises an eyebrow. His hand smooths down his tie, perfectly straight and centered. "No, it isn't."

"It's too wide," says Mitzi. "The knot's dull. The color _matches_ your _shirt_."

Morris is clutching his tie now, almost crumpling it. Mitzi smiles as sweetly as she can manage and offers the pocket square. The uneven stain of brown is on top. "Thank you, Morris."

" _Mordecai_ ," snaps Atlas' shadow, and flees.

Mitzi looks at her reflection, tilting her head first to the left, and then the right. Zib's saxophone vibrates through the floor, not quite in tune.

She reaches for her tin of blue.

\---

Mordecai is panting, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow. Mitzi doesn't let her aim waver. If she could trust a shot to kill him, she'd fire—it's silly to play at squeamishness. But if she can hold out until Viktor or Rocky or even _Freckle_ —

Smoke is seeping through the floorboards. So much for this nightclub. Mitzi coughs, and her finger tightens on the trigger as Mordecai reaches for his jacket pocket.

Mordecai raises his eyebrows and one hand, pulling out his pocket square with the other. He coughs into it delicately. "Are we just going to stare at each other until the building burns down?"

Mitzi shrugs. "Why not? Your tie looks nice." 

Mordecai straightens it. It's a bright paisley, reds and oranges against his powder-blue shirt. Mitzi can't imagine that he picked it out himself.

"I like the green.” Mordecai gestures vaguely at Mitzi’s face. Mitzi blinks, feeling the sticky heaviness of her eyeshadow. She'd worn dim browns and blacks for a week after Atlas' funeral, and never again.

"That was the only useful advice you ever gave me," says Mitzi, and Mordecai smiles through the smoke because they both know it isn't true.


End file.
